Project Part 3: Enough to be Okay
by FisherofMen
Summary: I don't know why it happens. One minute, we are 'okay', the next, I can barely breathe. (Season 4, takes place sometime after Dean comes back from hell. WARNING: MENTIONS OF SUICIDE/SELF HARM)


**A/N: PLEASE READ. THIS IS MY SECOND HURT!SAM FIC IN MY COLLECTION OF ONESHOTS. I'm starting a new hurt!Sam project. Basically, I'll write some drabbles/oneshots/twoshots of hurt!Sam fics to keep my writing skills in practice while I try and figure out my current multi-chapter fic. They will each be individual, but they will, hopefully, be inspired by your guys' submissions. I'm taking requests. From you guys, so please leave me a review and watch my account for new hurt!Sam stories. I'll pick out my favorite requests and do my best to write them. But, AGAIN, THEY WILL EACH BE INDIVIDUAL THEY WILL NOT BE UPDATED TO THIS STORY! FOR MORE INFORMATION, CHECK OUT MY FIRST HURT!SAM FIC HERE: s/10755627/1/Project-Part-1-Don-t-Turn-Your-Back**

**So I was feeling all emotional and needed to write some angsty stuff. I am a dark!Sam fan. I like to imagine AUs in my head and they are usually of a much darker Sam in those four months Dean was gone.**

** This was not requested, but it just sort of happened.**

**WARNINGS: MENTIONS OF SUICIDE/SELF HARM**

000

I don't know why it happens.

One minute, we are 'okay', the next, I can barely breathe.

Maybe it's because Dean is _alive._ Maybe it's because I am positive I'd seen him die. Maybe it's because he is whole; no hellhound claw-marks splitting his stomach open. Maybe it's because I strode forward to hug him, to feel his lungs expanding, his heart beating. Maybe it's because when I saw him, I allowed myself to feel for a moment. Maybe it's because as soon as I let go, I pulled my mask back on and became 'okay' again. 'Fine'. _I am fine._

Nothing sets it off. Not a smart remark from Dean, not a random object to trigger the feelings I've hid away. Nothing. I am 'okay'... and then I'm not. The mask falls from my face, my heart, exposing an open, bleeding, gushing, infected wound that steels my breath as I try to form words to express the dark pit inside me. I need to say something. I need to find something to the fill the void of nothingness, of 'okay' and 'fine'.

I can't find words. Can anything really describe the black hole that swirls and twists and sucks the life out of me, even as I sit next to Dean, driving to our next hunt, in the Impala that is our home? Everything should be fine. Dean is alive. We have a normal hunt. The Impala is functioning - not that it shouldn't be.

The need to explode somehow overcomes the loss of words and I say the first thing that comes to mind.

"You were dead."

The words aren't accusing. They're almost too quiet for my own ears and even I can't interpret the feelings behind the statement. No anger. No sadness. Not even bitterness. Just... there. The words are_ there_.

Dean glances at me, questions swimming in his green - _alive_ - green eyes. He adjusts his grip on the wheel as he looks between the road and me.

Of course he knows he was dead. He _was_ dead.

I'm sure he doesn't know what to say. Hell, I don't know what to say. I take the silence as room to elaborate and I pause a moment to put my raging feelings into a coherent explanation.

"_You were dead._"

My mouth is dry. Why can't I say anything else? Even as the words come out of my mouth, my mind is screaming to say something more. To explain. _To feel._ Out loud. To let loose _something_. I am tired of the numbness. My heart is tired of pretending. Maybe it was the one who let my facade slip - no. I handled myself for four months. I kept my feelings from getting in the way. I can still do it. _I am okay._

"Sam?"

_I am not okay. _

I was fine. For three months, I. Was. Fine. The first couple of weeks after Dean's death were hard; trying to make deals, trying to fix everything, then trying to forget. I can't remember if I even got a full night's sleep in those first weeks. Everything had been slipping through my fingers, like Dean's blood as I had washed his wounds.

Then I grasped onto the Winchester fallback: revenge. Or at least, _a_venging. I'd let Dean die. I couldn't bring him back. So I was going to kill, make whatever took him away, suffer. I found a purpose. And I couldn't risk any screw-ups. Anger replaced sorrow. Determination replaced despair. Any emotion that didn't fuel my mission was shoved down into a soundproof corner in my mind. Unheard. Unheeded. Never forgotten, but never acknowledged. It was the only way to fight. The only way to live.

Dean being alive doesn't change that. He is alive, yes, but it's not because I did anything.

He saved - saves - me over and over; so many times. Then I couldn't save him the one time I needed to. It was different than just a hunt gone wrong; Dean had died for me; gone to hell,_ for me._ It wasn't just dying. It was damnation. Because of me. Because of a stupid mistake. Because I let my guard down. Because I screwed up.

"Sorry... M'sorry..." I whisper, feeling like the air caught the words instead of Dean. I don't know what I'm apologizing for. For bringing up his death. For saying anything. For letting him die. For screwing up. For letting him down in ways that he hasn't even witnessed. For becoming what I swore I wouldn't become.

But it is for Dean. I need to kill Lilith. It's the only thing I can think about. I let Dean down once - no, too many times to count - I can't let him down again.

"It's okay, Sam," he says and only then do I notice that the car is nestled on the shoulder of the dirt road we've been driving on, engine purring as she waits patiently to continue.

The three words were always comforting. It didn't matter if dad was bleeding because 'it's okay, Sam'. It didn't matter if the demon killed Jess because 'it's okay, Sam'. It didn't matter. Because if Dean said it was okay, _it was okay._ And he's telling me again. It's okay.

_And he is just wrong._

It's not okay. It hasn't been okay since November 2nd, of 1983. And the constant weight on my chest, the sleepless nights, the violent images that flash on the back of my eyelids, urge me to believe that it will never be.

_We are not okay. _

"No, it's not okay, Dean!" I yell, startled by my outburst as much as Dean looks. The muscles in his jaw jump. "It hasn't been okay! Not since you made that deal; not since you _died!_" And then some. My chest swells with something hot, burning my lungs and pricking my dry eyes. "Stop telling me it's okay, cause I think you and me both know that we are far from it!"

Dean just looks at me. He is tense; I can see it in his shoulders. He has a weight of his own. He'd been to hell, dammit, but I can't stop. Flood-gates are opening and I can't stop the current. I can only transfer the dampness of my eyes to anger, like working a valve.

"You were dead, Dean! You went to hell and I didn't stop it! You can't go through that and just say 'it's okay'!"

"Fine, Sam, it's not okay! Is that what you want me to say?"

"Yes! I want you to stop treating me like a kid! I lasted four months without you; I don't need to be coddled!" The words strike me like a physical blow, and going by the look that flashes behind Dean's eyes, he receives similar bruises. The look, however, disappears quickly.

"You think this is coddling? You think this is treating you like a kid? It's called being a good brother! And sorry if this situation seems a little 'okay' to me, because believe me when I say that_ I've been in worse!_"

I flinch.

"What do you think I'm talking about, Dean? You've been to _hell!_ And I didn't do a damn thing to stop it! You-"

"Don't start, Sam. It wasn't your fault." His voice rings with warning that I refuse to acknowledge.

"_You_ don't start, Dean. Don't throw that crap at me. I know how you felt after dad died. You couldn't even help that you were dying, and you still blamed yourself for his death! Well, if you hadn't noticed, I screwed up. I went against everything dad taught us and turned away from my opponent _and_ even left my weapon lying around. That was a mistake, Dean. And it cost lives. It was _my fault._

And don't keep trying to tell me it isn't, cause you've blamed yourself for a lot less," I add.

Dad's death isn't 'less', but Dean blames himself when I get injuries on hunts, even if he has nothing to do with what happens. Cause it's 'his job' to protect me and I got hurt. Then when I try and save him from something and get hurt in the process, I am stupid and reckless. It doesn't matter if I save his life, because I risk my own wellbeing.

But Dean can _die_ for me and that's okay?

I'm starting to think that Winchesters have a very twisted definition of 'okay'.

"A lot less, Sam? Dammit, you were dead! I couldn't live with that - I can't! I did what I had to keep you safe."

"_Keep me safe?_" His words ring in my ears even as I repeat them. 'Keep me safe'. "How were you planning on keeping me safe while you were in hell? You left! And what's worse, you act like I was worth your sacrifice!"

"You are." The words are firm. Final. Leaving no room for argument.

"And yet you don't think you were worth dad's?"

He stiffens and faces ahead.

"That's bullshit, Dean! You said it yourself, 'what's dead should stay dead'!"

"Sam-"

"You know what, I don't get it. You were so pissed at dad for what he did and still so willing to do it yourself. How could you just forget everything that we went through after he died?"

"I didn't forget! Hell, I'll _never_ forget! But letting you die wasn't an option. It wasn't in me, Sam. I couldn't let you die!" He is facing me again, eyes piercing straight into my soul, like a needle at the same time as like a sledgehammer.

"But _I_ could let _you_ die?" My tone is significantly lower. The words grate against my eardrums, but he hears them. _He hears them._ "You think I could let you die any more than you could let me?"

He clenches his jaw and I imagine his gaze fluttering away, but it stays trained on me.

"But I could, couldn't I? I let you die and I didn't bring you back." My voice wavers and I force it to steady. "But don't you dare think that it was easier for me to lose you than it was for you to lose me. That I could go on without you any more than you could without me. I know what it feels like, Dean! You couldn't live with the fact that your brother was dead! You knew you couldn't cause the moment the light left their eyes, you died right along with them!

...But you were dead for _four months..._" And I know how it feels like to live without a brother for longer. The Trickster made sure of that. "And I couldn't do a damn thing. I tried. God, I tried. But I couldn't. You were dead and I was alive. You don't know how many times I..." I let the words drift off, hang in the air, releasing a suffocating silence over the Impala.

How many times I couldn't live with the fact that he was dead. How many times I lingered while cleaning the guns, just to cling to what it felt like to finger the trigger, imagining what would happen if it was loaded and if the barrel was tilted up just a little more... Too many times I thought about what bullets taste like. Or how the muzzle of my pistol fit right into the indent of my temple. Or how a rope necklace might feel. Or if I could fill up my lungs with as much water as they hold air. Or what it would be like to watch my curse, my darkness, my blood, my demon blood, as it drains out of my forearms, pulling my life out with it.

Too many times. And Dean can never know how that feels, nor do I want him to.

But he just can't keep thinking that dad was the worst person on the planet for leaving him and think that it was perfectly okay for him to turn around and do the same thing to me. The hypocrisy of his lifestyle steals my breath, punches my gut, crushes my reasoning.

I am worth no more than him. If anything, I'm worth less. Dean's not the one with demonic juice flowing through his system. He's not the reason mom is dead, why dad started hunting, why his brother died.

And I realize we're moving again. The fireflies blink in and out of the fields, like twinkling stars, until my vision blurs. Apparently the conversation is over, because Dean is watching the road as his baby eats it up. I resist a sigh. I feel drained; my limbs heavy, my soul heavy. Everything is heavy. The weight of hunting down Lilith, of my destiny, of my secrets, of my - ruined - composure, of the last four months, of freaking life in general, it all threatens to crush me. To suffocate me. Each day it feels heavier.

"It _will_ be okay, Sam," he finally says, voice clear as crystal in my ears.

The rest goes unspoken. _It may not be okay now, but it will be. Because I'm here. You're here. And that's all we've needed before._

I'll still wake up the next morning expecting an empty bed beside me. An empty passenger seat in a car that isn't mine. A dull radio station playing music that I'm supposed to like but I hate because it's not _Dean's_ music.

But now he's here. Not superman, but strong. Not a perfect, but alive. Not a zombie. Not a shapeshifter. Not a demon. Just my brother. Just _Dean. _

And right now, driving down a dirt road with him sitting - _alive_ - right next tome, that is enough. It is certainly better than a month ago. Progress.

Maybe it is enough. Enough to be... okay.

Dean is always enough.

000

**A/N: I wasn't expecting such an abrupt ending, but it just... did. My writing usually does that. :P**

**So tell me what you think. To anyone who has been following these fics, I AM SORRY I HAVEN'T WRITTEN ANY OF YOUR REQUESTS RECENTLY. I am pretty busy with school and on top of that, my mind hasn't been cooperative. I just write spur of the moment. :/ **

**Anywho, tell me whatcha thought of it! :)**


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